A Walk in the Wood

In the shadow of a blue mountain, beneath the rain laden fog, there lays a small wood, baptized by the Autumn Sun. Close within, near to its heart, there sits a log. There is nothing overly fantastic about it, in and of itself, In the way of comfort or appearances, save the little rest it provides to the lonesome wanderer that happens upon it. It rests in between a clearing cut for power lines, which feed the nearby cities, and a paved highway that seems always to play host to some busy stranger, caught in the relentless wheel of life. And at its front sits a school of darkened stone and weathered clay, pulled from the Earth by man In his endless search for comfort. It is small, and by most accounts unassuming. It is not as wild as the great rain forests to the south, or as tame as the pristine as the precisely manicured parks and lawns one so often finds in cities. It is noticed by few, and revered by none, aside from the few birds that grace the air above, and the small insects that crawl upon the Earth below. There are countless more of such that dot the lands of every continent, and every nation, save perhaps the most deprived, or wild in spirit. And yet, still, here there is a peace. A calmness that comes as an unforeseen surprise to those that find it, and an unexpected reserve to those that seek It.

The babbling and murmuring of the brook, which a great many misread as sadness, represents nothing save, perhaps, the blissful contentment of the viewer. The callings of birds drift down from above, a rhapsody of the Earth, that echoes the shifting emotions of the listener. Sunlight streams down the waking Autumn leaves, and washes over the smooth river rocks, pouring its golden hue into the brook which sits below. And in the center of this brilliant oasis, there sits the log, simple and unassuming, beckoning the traveler to rest.

And yet, every so often, the harmony of the wood is interrupted by the burdened squealing of a car, as it drives by, or the echoes of student’s voices, as they carry out over the trees. And with these sounds come all of the burdens of reality. Then, often times, a cloud, as if interrupted as well, will shift and overshadow the sun, and the silent pool of sunlight will vanish. This lasts for a short time, and then it will reappear of it’s own accord. Shortly after, however, once the car has passed, carrying its troubles still farther away, and once the cloud drifts away, and the sunlight once again falls on the brook, one can forget that such interruptions ever existed. And yet they remain, as much a part of the human world as the log itself, beckoning in quite another manner, but beckoning nonetheless. And it is between these two worlds in which we find ourselves, the world that placed the log upon the bank of a brook, and bathed it in a golden hue, and the world that paved the road, and pieced together the stones that form the school. And this reality, which few ponder, but all realize, is found, almost perfectly in this wood, which is surrounded by overhanging power lines and paved roads. The same wood that houses a dark and moss-ridden log, that remains the singular answer to the questions that were never asked.

And this Is what I realized, while sitting silently upon that log. This is what was sung by the birds that sung above, and was illuminated by the overhanging sun. This is what was embodied In the voices of the school, and affirmed by the wailings of a passing car. And this is what, at hearing the sound of my name, I stood before, and left In that wood, to be forever discussed among the sun-kissed trees. And, perhaps, one day, once the log has rotted and turned once more to dirt, another tree will fall In the wood, and another will find it, and sit upon it. Then, perhaps, they will hear the same calling birds, and feel the sunlight chase away the Autumn breeze, and the cars that drive along the highway, and they will hear the question posed by the surrounding woods. Then, If they be wiser than me, they might form an answer, and offer it to the forest pines, and then the log on which they sit, may be once again revered by another.